Yikes. It's 5,000 posts, and in honour of the tradition, here is something:
Lookouts are the most important part of an army, Da says, as if that's supposed to make me feel better about sitting in a tree while there's fighting in the field below. Sitting in a tree admiring the view of the rolling hills and farmland of central Kursk listening to the others helping our Saranthi attackers with their apparent urge to suicide.
"See anything?" Maken says from somewhere in the shiny green under my feet. He sounds as pleased to be here as I feel.
I squint. "Couple of farmhouses."
"Anything moving?"
"Geese."
"You'd make me die laughing." He struggles through the higher branches and breaks out into the sunshine. He's a big guy, Maken, full grown he'll be as big as Da, and theirs is not a build that takes gracefully to tree-climbing.
I tug a couple of leaves from his silvery hair. "Did you leave any of these on the tree?"
"It doesn't deserve any." He shakes his head, trying to dislodge the rest of them. No chance; they're wedged in his plaits. "Bloody thing poked me with branches all the way up here."
"You go round the branches, not through them."
"There's no space to go round."
"That's because you're getting fat."
I grin down at him and immediately regret it. His smile flickers, as it has a lot recently. With a sinking heart, I wish that I was down in the skirmish where things are straightforward and physical, not in a tree dealing at close quarters with my cousin who has suddenly turned into a stranger. Suddenly turned serious.
"Serka…" His hand shakes, just a little, right next to my knee. God knows what he finds so attractive about the top of my boots or the greaves Da's taken to making me wear.
I bite down a sigh. "Let's not, right now." Let's not do this again. There are only so many ways I can say no without resorting to violence.
"All right." He twists in the leaves, draws his knife and cuts a long strip of bark away from its branch. "But when?"
His question pushes at me. I guess he's not going to respond well to "Never" so I concentrate on the sounds of battle below. On the yells, the clashing of axe on shield, the wet push of opened flesh. I don't need to look to know the Saranthi attackers won't last long. The numbers might be about even, but that says nothing because we're the best mercenaries in the world and the Saranthi are only soldiers.
"Serka?"
I look away from him, back out to the north, the area Reslen and his troop have blocked off.
For an instant, I don't understand what I'm seeing. The geese have scattered. Dark shapes rush through their field.
Horses. Crap.
"Alarm," I yell, fumbling the horn from my belt, and blow the three blasts that will alert everyone to the incoming foe.
The horses rush across the space too fast, and so slowly I can see every strand of hair on every mane rising and falling with their movement. Maken starts swearing, starts sliding downward, branches catching him, tearing his thick jerkin. I spend a moment more watching the battlefield. Approaching like this, the horses will come in behind Da, who's out on his own, just a couple of his jarls with him, vulnerable, with the mass of our group ahead. Each group is concealed from the other by a rise of land. I blow the horn again, and see faces turn, but no one else can see.
sh*t.I scramble downward, climbing over Maken.
Where the hell did those horsemen come from? Where's Reslen?
As I land on the soft earth at the base of the tree, I draw my swords, glance at Maken just behind me, and we both rush towards the rise, pelting over the hummocks of the grass, round the loose bodies tumbled like fruit under the branches.
"Get to the Captain!" Maken bellows as we run past Soraya. She nods, stabs her opponent through the throat and runs with us. Breath whistling, and heart clenching, and fingers so tight round the sword hilt they might be stone, I force myself faster. We crest the rise in time to catch the end of the horsemen's charge, the crazed flashing legs and chests and huge heads of the chargers, the lowered weapons of their riders.
Da's still standing; Ottan is down.
I catch a blade on my own, twist it outward, and stab with the short sword in my left hand, up under the rider's arm. A heave, and I drop him in the dirt, block another swinging sword and this time, Maken slices into the rider's neck. Blood splatters over both of us. I wipe my eyes on the back of my wrist and push forward. The dense bodies of horses block my view of my father. The horsemen are turning, milling, not using the weight and the speed of their mounts to advantage. Fine. Milling horses are vulnerable. I drop a couple without stopping. Hear the crunch of axe on mail as Maken ends the riders behind me. Carve a road through the screaming mass. Beside me Soraya is breathing hard, but not slowing. We can't. Can't slow until we've reached Da.
Lookouts are the most important part of an army, Da says, as if that's supposed to make me feel better about sitting in a tree while there's fighting in the field below. Sitting in a tree admiring the view of the rolling hills and farmland of central Kursk listening to the others helping our Saranthi attackers with their apparent urge to suicide.
"See anything?" Maken says from somewhere in the shiny green under my feet. He sounds as pleased to be here as I feel.
I squint. "Couple of farmhouses."
"Anything moving?"
"Geese."
"You'd make me die laughing." He struggles through the higher branches and breaks out into the sunshine. He's a big guy, Maken, full grown he'll be as big as Da, and theirs is not a build that takes gracefully to tree-climbing.
I tug a couple of leaves from his silvery hair. "Did you leave any of these on the tree?"
"It doesn't deserve any." He shakes his head, trying to dislodge the rest of them. No chance; they're wedged in his plaits. "Bloody thing poked me with branches all the way up here."
"You go round the branches, not through them."
"There's no space to go round."
"That's because you're getting fat."
I grin down at him and immediately regret it. His smile flickers, as it has a lot recently. With a sinking heart, I wish that I was down in the skirmish where things are straightforward and physical, not in a tree dealing at close quarters with my cousin who has suddenly turned into a stranger. Suddenly turned serious.
"Serka…" His hand shakes, just a little, right next to my knee. God knows what he finds so attractive about the top of my boots or the greaves Da's taken to making me wear.
I bite down a sigh. "Let's not, right now." Let's not do this again. There are only so many ways I can say no without resorting to violence.
"All right." He twists in the leaves, draws his knife and cuts a long strip of bark away from its branch. "But when?"
His question pushes at me. I guess he's not going to respond well to "Never" so I concentrate on the sounds of battle below. On the yells, the clashing of axe on shield, the wet push of opened flesh. I don't need to look to know the Saranthi attackers won't last long. The numbers might be about even, but that says nothing because we're the best mercenaries in the world and the Saranthi are only soldiers.
"Serka?"
I look away from him, back out to the north, the area Reslen and his troop have blocked off.
For an instant, I don't understand what I'm seeing. The geese have scattered. Dark shapes rush through their field.
Horses. Crap.
"Alarm," I yell, fumbling the horn from my belt, and blow the three blasts that will alert everyone to the incoming foe.
The horses rush across the space too fast, and so slowly I can see every strand of hair on every mane rising and falling with their movement. Maken starts swearing, starts sliding downward, branches catching him, tearing his thick jerkin. I spend a moment more watching the battlefield. Approaching like this, the horses will come in behind Da, who's out on his own, just a couple of his jarls with him, vulnerable, with the mass of our group ahead. Each group is concealed from the other by a rise of land. I blow the horn again, and see faces turn, but no one else can see.
sh*t.I scramble downward, climbing over Maken.
Where the hell did those horsemen come from? Where's Reslen?
As I land on the soft earth at the base of the tree, I draw my swords, glance at Maken just behind me, and we both rush towards the rise, pelting over the hummocks of the grass, round the loose bodies tumbled like fruit under the branches.
"Get to the Captain!" Maken bellows as we run past Soraya. She nods, stabs her opponent through the throat and runs with us. Breath whistling, and heart clenching, and fingers so tight round the sword hilt they might be stone, I force myself faster. We crest the rise in time to catch the end of the horsemen's charge, the crazed flashing legs and chests and huge heads of the chargers, the lowered weapons of their riders.
Da's still standing; Ottan is down.
I catch a blade on my own, twist it outward, and stab with the short sword in my left hand, up under the rider's arm. A heave, and I drop him in the dirt, block another swinging sword and this time, Maken slices into the rider's neck. Blood splatters over both of us. I wipe my eyes on the back of my wrist and push forward. The dense bodies of horses block my view of my father. The horsemen are turning, milling, not using the weight and the speed of their mounts to advantage. Fine. Milling horses are vulnerable. I drop a couple without stopping. Hear the crunch of axe on mail as Maken ends the riders behind me. Carve a road through the screaming mass. Beside me Soraya is breathing hard, but not slowing. We can't. Can't slow until we've reached Da.
